


Gunpowder Plots & Missing Months

by borlaaq



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Other, and it all went out of control from there, my tumblr came up with an au about a baby master in the neath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24947488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borlaaq/pseuds/borlaaq
Summary: The Halved voice breaks you from your thoughts. WHAT IS THAT WORD…  A Correspondence sigil flashes in your mind's eye: something whose weakness causes foolish reactions.You laugh. "Cute?" You offer.
Relationships: The Halved/Mr Barleycorn
Comments: 9
Kudos: 22





	Gunpowder Plots & Missing Months

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr really likes this fucking dumb baby master and so do i. emil calls it mr gunpowder but its real name is mr months. 
> 
> i mayyyyy write more about it later and slap it all in here?  
> but pretty much it grows up in the neath stuck between being taken care of by the masters and the calendar council and its a mess for everyone.

You had spent well over a month hunting Scrive-Spinsters and longer still finding Sleeping Grievers. The Halved radiates amusement as you fly through its skies. It's the first time in eons you've hunted so much. 

YOU ARE LONELY. You hear its voice echo in your mind. You flinch, nearly dropping the amber you had been holding against your abdomen. 

"I am  _ not _ lonely!" You snap and then, suddenly mollified by the realization you shouted at your employer, you sigh. "I'm making a spy. For the Neath."

You feel it boil with laughter and the stars on your face brighten. It is laughing at you! You frown. 

A CURATOR SPY? It asks. And there's that amusement rolling from it again.

You are blushing even harder now. "If all goes right, it will be a Runt. Albino." You explain. "The Masters of the Bazaar should be less likely to kill it then." You pause. "I do not have the… patience or desire to make a human." 

The Halved falls silent and you feel its presence retreat briefly. You suddenly feel bad. It had also liked the Runt Judgement. Candles, as you heard it called itself in the Neath, reminded your employer of its own dead sibling. 

A GOOD IDEA.

You quickly stamp down the pounding behind your ribs the praise causes. 

CAN YOU TRULY SEND IT AWAY, THOUGH?

"Curator pups leave to earn their name at a young age. It will be no different than that. Eventually it, hopefully, will return." You realize, belatedly, you are explaining your culture to a  _ Judgement _ . It already knows all this. You feel rather foolish but something tells you it enjoys listening to you talk. 

—

It is so small when it is born you worry it won't survive the gravity of the Neath. It is fragile, wings papery and bones still soft. You can't help but feeling disgust bubble in your gut. A Runt. A white Runt. Bad luck, your culture, your blood, yells at you. 

IT IS QUITE… INTERESTING. The Halved voice breaks you from your thoughts. WHAT IS THAT WORD… A Correspondence sigil flashes in your mind's eye: something whose weakness causes foolish reactions.

You laugh. "Cute?" You offer. 

YES.

The pup squeaks a bit and you look back down at it. It tries to bury itself into your thick mane of fur but you hold it back to analyze it. All of its organs are in place. Its heart beats evenly and its lungs are strong. Its fur is thick, a blinding white in the darkness of Eleutheria. It opens its eyes, yawns. Its eyes are a brilliant pink.

Unlike most albinos, it has hints of dark stars in its wings, like a Sun Turned To Night. You suppose it would be the first Curator born here.

That makes your traitorous heart skip a beat again. 

You help it make a nest in your fur. You sing to it until it falls asleep. The Halved seems to be listening as well, its huge eye close to the window.

—

Before you send it to the Neath, you give it the Mark of your employer. The largest one you have given, inked onto the still papery flesh (from the Spinster perhaps?) of its wing. It chirrups, looking at the Mark with wide eyes. It won't learn to talk for a few weeks yet, but it has already grown much bigger. 

You've imprinted knowledge into its very soul, inscribed the Correspondence into its bones, and now Marked it. You've done all you can. Its instinct should do the rest: find something to hoard that will help the flock. 

I HAVE A GIFT FOR IT AS WELL. 

Upon sensing the voice, the pup gives an excited, shrill noise and rushes to the window where the Halved's eye has grown close. There's a fondness in the gaze, you think, before promptly pushing the thought away. 

The Halved speaks a sigil to life and the pup reaches for it with a shrieking giggle. To Be Exalted. You blink, shocked. Another sigil: To Master Greatness. 

The Halved makes your pup a Master. 

Nothing changes, of course, but it will be stronger. And other Masters will know. 

"Thank you." You say as you pick up the pup. The Halved retreats, turning its gaze back out to its kingdom. The pup purrs and you give it a kiss on the head before taking its hand into yours. You place it to the shrine on your desk and all at once, your pup is teleported to the Neath. 

Once it is gone, you let out a shaky breath. Your eyes sting. The Halved is back at your window and you give it a smile. 

IT WILL CAUSE HAVOC. 

"It  _ is _ my blood." You laugh. 


End file.
